


Scrambled

by gutrots



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Blood and Gore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Gore, HYDRA Trash Party, LITERALLY, Lobotomy, Locked-in syndrome, M/M, MCU trash meme, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Not Beta Read, Skullfucking, Steve/Bucky is only implied, Trauma, Violence, Wound Fucking, as in dick to the head kind of thing, i have absolutely no excuse for this, penises going where penises shouldn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 10:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15217688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: Giving a whole new meaning to 'fucked in the head'.





	Scrambled

The asset is sitting cross-legged in a corner in a dark hallway deep underground. Its gaze is trained forward, unfocused, and a thick trail of spit is making its steady way down the asset's chin. It is almost completely still, except for the barely noticeable back-and-forth of the way it is rocking the upper half of its rigid body. A single droplet of bright red begins its descent from where the asset's left ear would be underneath its long, dirty hair. Slowly, it winds its way between muscle and bone and scar tissue, leaving behind an intricate trail.

Everything is so very quiet.

 

* * *

 

'And that's when I said, you don't send in four guys with AK-47s into a situation -'

The conversation comes to an abrupt halt. The two men walking down the hallway stop as they round a corner and see the asset - the Winter Soldier - sitting there completely naked, rocking itself back and forth like a goddamn retard. At first glance, its body doesn’t appear to be damaged, and the contrast between its brutal muscle and childish posture is somewhere between disconcerting and comical. All it would take to complete the caricature is for it to start sucking its thumb. Its long hair and the half-darkness of the corridor are obscuring its face, like it's a shaggy street dog that got caught in a downpour. All in all, the sight is mostly pitiful, and at least partially amusing.

The world's most deadly assassin, reduced to this.

'Who the fuck left this here?'

'How would I know? It ain't looking good though.'

One of the men nudges the asset with the tip of his steel-toe boot. The touch is firm enough to get its attention, yet brief enough not to get the boot dirty.

'Oi, dumbfuck, what're you doing here? Don't have places to be? People to kill or dicks to suck or whatever else it is that you do in your spare time?' he asks.

The asset provides no answer. Annoyed, the man gives it a solid kick to the ribs. The asset leans slightly to the side, but remains seated firmly in place. Not a single sound escapes its chapped lips. It keeps staring at the bare concrete wall like it holds the explanation to what is happening to it right now.

'You know what happens when you don't answer to your superiors, don't you, сука?’ the man urges as he bends down to give the asset a smack on its ugly mug and put it in its place.

He grabs the asset by the chin and turns its head towards the buzzing fluorescent lightbulb half-illuminating the hallway so that he can look at it straight forward. Disgusted by the slippery mess on the bottom half of the asset's face, he lets go and wipes his hand down the leg of his trousers. He leans in closer, and the smell of iron and fresh meat hits him right away.

That's when he notices the blood.

There is entirely too much blood on the asset’s left side. Some of it is fresh, bright red, some darkened and crusted. It flows in narrow rivulets from underneath the asset's greasy, unkempt hair and down its neck. Over the fucked up shoulder and down the chest, over the metal arm, clogging the mechanical plating. It is diluted to a watercolour pink where it had met the fat globs of drool falling from between the asset's slack lips and landing on its front. It ends its journey pooling in its lap.

The left side of the asset's head is crusted with a mess of blood and tissue. Its hair sticks to the scalp underneath, bunched together in strands littered with flecks of gore. There is an empty space where its ear used to be, and the skin there is trying to knit itself into scar tissue, clumping and falling apart, in constant motion. The flesh is flat where the cartilage had been removed with a precise cut, nothing more than a patch of peeled skin. It pulsates, swells and falls, reddens and fades. So alive, and so strange in the grand scheme of the nearly lifeless body of the asset. The undamaged skin around the wound is pulled tight, like it is trying to stretch itself to cover the newly exposed area, but to no avail. The tissue grows and writhes, forming strands and clots, trying to stop the bleeding.

The blood itself is leaking from deep gouge remaining from what must have been the ear canal. The hole appears to be deep enough to allow direct access to the asset’s brain. Its diameter brings forward immediate associations. It is larger than a gunshot wound from a .50 BMG cartridge. Larger than a Russian 10 рубль coin. Larger than the insignia on a standard issue HYDRA officer's hat.

It is a perfect size to fit a certain part of human anatomy.

The thought is obscene. But the way the asset is sitting right there, pliant and obedient and so entirely helpless, is making the man’s dick twitch in his pants. What would it feel like, to have complete power and control over the most feared being in history? To make it nothing but a hole for him to use. To fuck it up so bad it will be beyond helping. To use it like it's nothing but a pile of meat, loose and pliant and lukewarm.

He knows that despite its childish mannerisms, the asset is no virgin. It’s been taking HYDRA dick since day one. Ever since some resourceful soldier discovered that its total compliance extends far beyond mission protocol. But to have it like this? To leave his mark where no one else had been before? It is beyond tempting.

He waves his companion away, urging him to continue down the hallway alone. Reassuring him that he will take good care of this misplaced thing.

 

* * *

 

'Who is he? The man from the bridge please _please_ please пожалуйста I need to know. I knew him он меня знал' I swear. пожалуйста please tell me who he is Расскажи мне-‘

'Oh would you just shut the fuck up! All your noises are giving me a headache' the doctor mutters, more to himself than to the asset, as he jabs a syringe full of tranquilizer into its thigh.

The useless thing is slowly going slack where it is strapped to the chair, its thrashing turning into faint tremors. It was fully non-functional when STRIKE brought it in, screaming and crying and asking questions, clearly caught up in another one of its reoccurring delusions. As per usual, it had been strapped to the chair and electricity was applied to its brain in order to recalibrate it for optimal functioning.

Except that this time, it did not work. The doctor tried again, but the repeated treatment did not yield any result. It's only fair, he supposes. Bodies grow immune, after all. Things develop resistance, and that’s why there's a need for experimental approaches. There is a simple analogy, really, one he had used to illustrate the need for progress to his students, in a different time and a different job.

There's only as long as you can hard boil an egg. Keep it in the water for a minute or three, you get varying results. Seven will be different too. Have it fully cooked in ten and that’s it. Any longer than that, and you won't make it do anything else. There is no room for progress to occur within this particular treatment. The egg will stay boiled exactly as it is.

In spite of all its near-mystical complexity, the human brain is oddly similar to an egg.

Except that you can't give an egg a brain surgery.

All this musing is making the doctor remember that due to the asset being a fucking mess he will be missing his lunch break.

Speaking of which. The asset's body has finally stopped its useless twitching and appears to be fully submerged in chemically induced sleep. For safety concerns it remains strapped to the chair. Even though this is not an optimal position for surgery, non-conventional medical professionals like himself can make do even in situations like this. The rubber mouth guard remains in place too. The asset might be starting to drool around it, but a bit of spit is preferable to getting one's fingers bitten off when the thing wakes up and begins to snarl like a rabid dog.

The cut is quick and clean. Maybe slightly due to the pride in the standard of medical care at this particular HYDRA facility. Mostly because the doctor is annoyed, there's an egg salad sandwich waiting in a lunchbox in a locker just a few feet away, and the asset burns through sedatives like a bodybuilder through Chinese-made steroids.

One swift motion and the ear falls to the ground, leaving behind a neat red outline of where the cartilage would connect to the skull. All that is left is a small hole of the ear canal, slightly too narrow to fit the required tools. A quick cut here and there, a finger jammed directly in between skin and bone and muscle, and the problem is fixed. There is a significant amount of blood running all over the asset's left side but they are strapped for funding, so there is no point wasting money on unnecessary bandages or dressings. Not like this amount of blood loss is going to damage it too much either, superhuman healing and all that. The tools go in easily. A few snips and pokes straight to the temporal lobe and there, an hour later, the problem is solved. The persistence of memory should not bother the asset any longer.

The doctor is contemplating applying stitches, but in the end decides that the asset should be just fine fixing itself. He injects the asset with a substance meant to reduce bleeding, and wipes off the slowly crusting blood with a wet rag. The higher ups better be grateful. No more mumbling about men and bridges, throwing punches and being an embarrassment. No more slip ups during missions. No more electricity bills being through the roof.

Slowly, the asset opens its eyes. The pupils refuse to adjust their size to the light conditions of the room. It does not spit out the mouth guard. It does not pull on the leather straps binding it to the chair. It does not scream. All is blissfully quiet, and the problem appears to be fixed.

STRIKE are not there yet to take it back to cryo, probably having assumed that the procedure would take much longer. Highly unlikely, the doctor thinks. He knows what he's doing, and besides, fixing brains is what takes long. Not this. Besides, not like anyone has that much time to waste on weapon maintenance. With the exception of nukes, maybe. Those require good care. Drones. Nerve agents. That really neat new virus they're working on down in Science & Engineering. But this old thing? Definitely not.

Encouraged by the asset's complete lack of noises the doctor unfastens the straps, pulls the assets up by its mismatched shoulders, and steers it out of the surgery room and into the hallway. The metal door closes with a loud screech and the subsequent dull _thud_ of the asset stumbling and falling to its knees is resolutely ignored in favour of chopped up eggs encased between two pieces of rye bread.

 

* * *

 

'What have they done to you now? Scrambled your brains up real good, haven't they?' the man croons as his fingers trace the outline of the wound.

'Well, trust me, it can always get worse' he says as he pushes his trousers down and plunges his hard cock into the bright red hole on the side of the asset's head.

The wound gives easily, tissue separating and allowing smooth entry where it hasn't yet managed to knit itself back together. It opens up just to tighten again, like it’s pulling him in. It's tight and wet and warm, and feels entirely too natural to be wrong. Like this is where the asset is meant to be fucked. He spends a while not moving, absorbing the uncannily familiar sensation.

The asset looks like it's ready to choke, its eyes bulging out of its head and its mouth completely slack, making small noises at the back of its throat. It stays completely still, doesn't do anything to resist the intrusion. The only sign betraying the fact that it is definitely not enjoying its current predicament are the tears which being to well in its eyes. It looks so entirely lost. Gone. An empty house with the lights left on. The sight is borderline _erotic_. The man pulls back its messy hair, instinctively aiming to tuck it behind an ear that's no longer there. It falls back down in messy strands, framing his dick and sticking to the raw tissue surrounding the wound.

With a shallow motion of his hips he pulls out slightly, just enough to make the faintest trickle of blood join the mess covering the asset's left side and cause the wound to give an obscene _squelch_. Encouraged, he pushes back in, and a mess of pink and red makes its way out of the hole and around his dick, making it all even slicker. He readjusts his grip, one hand in the tangled mess at the back of the asset's hair, one on its chin, and starts thrusting.

The pace is brutal, his movement sharp and shallow. There is something about that slick heat that makes him want to stay inside rather than pull out all the way. To feel the wet mush of the inside of the asset’s head squirming around him. More and more tissue and blood is squeezed out of the wound as he continues to fuck the hole, clumps of it falling onto the asset’s metal shoulder, getting stuck in its hair on the way down, ending up caught in between the plates of the arm. The blood is now flowing steadily, every thrusts forcing out a new trickle. The tender flesh inside the hole is easily rearranged to cling snugly to his dick, providing the perfect fit. His balls slap against the asset’s cheek and jawline and the humiliation of it only adds to the experience. The grip he has on the asset’s chin is uncomfortable, and so he forces his fingers into its slack mouth, repulsion replaced with arousal when his fingers press on the heavy tongue and end up covered in copious amounts of spit. In the end, the sensation is entirely too good and he finishes quickly, buried inside to the hilt.

 

* * *

 

When he's done, the entire left side of the asset's head is a mess of blood, semen and tissue. No longer able to remain still, it twitches, its breathing rapid and irregular. It is drooling and gurgling and frothing at the mouth, biting its tongue, choking on its own spit. Its nostrils flutter and nails dig into the floor underneath it, cracking and breaking. At some point, it pisses all over itself.

The tremors pick up until it falls to the ground, hitting its head on the dirty concrete of the hallway. The rancid smell of piss and spoiled meat is overwhelming. The single, flickering lightbulb reflects in its glassy, unseeing eyes. It lies completely still.

Everything is so very quiet.

 

* * *

 

Years later, Bucky makes his way back home. At first, he is terrified of touch, hiding behind his long hair and entirely too many layers of unwashed clothing. In time, things slowly begin to get better and eventually he finds himself stretched out on the sofa in the living room of a small brownstone in DC, feet propped up on the armrest and Steve running lazy fingers through his hair.

It's all perfect until Steve's hands stumble upon the mess of twisted scars and misshapen, half-developed cartilage residing where Bucky's left ear should be. The fingers seem questioning when they run over the strange shape, which looks more like a parasitic fungus rather than a functioning part of the human body.

'You wanna tell me what happened here, Buck?' Steve asks, in that sad, permanently worried voice of his.

'Nothing new, Stevie' he answers. 'Just Hydra fucking with my head.'


End file.
